


Nothing Between

by WhoopsOK



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Traumatized Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 01:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: "Dean could take all of them, he could, but not with that thing on Sam."(Dean has to make a hard choice to save his brother.)Please heed the tags and read the author’s note.





	Nothing Between

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ
> 
> Warnings for graphic non/dubious-consent, discussion of assault, and suicidal ideation. I feel like I should also mention there’s a threatened electro-lobotomy (with crude mentions of its effects). Please mind the tags. Please do not read if this would in any way trigger or otherwise harm you, I do not want you to have a bad time. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hover over this for a summary with spoilers.

Humans are always the worst.

Dean has been to Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory, has fought hundreds of monsters, sometimes without any weapons besides his fists, some of which were only _rumored_ to even exist. Dean Winchester – _the Righteous Man, the Knight of Hell_ – has seen all of it and done most of it, and still, sitting here in a makeshift doctor’s office on the outskirts of suburbia, he has no doubt in his mind that humans are _always_ the worst. He doesn’t bother to wipe at the blood dribbling down his nose, forcing his hands to stay relaxed on the table.

There are three other men in the room, and he counted five in the hall on his way in. Why would a doctor need an eight man security detail, all armed with semi-automatics? _Well_ , wild guess says Dr. Jimothy Hempstead – even with his annoyingly kind smile and charming accent – is not actually any sort of doctor Dean would go to. And that’s saying _a lot_ considering the van-in-an-alleyway doctors he’s had to let touch him before.

The three other men in the room have not dropped their rifles since he was led in, keeping them trained right on him. They haven’t gotten close to him either which is smart, because Dean could take all of them, he could, but – his eyes flicker to the screen on the end of the table – not with that _thing_ on Sam.

He’s not clear on what it is, but he has no delusions about it being just for show.

Sam is bent over a table in a room Dean’s never seen before, hands cuffed out to the corners of it, and wearing a heavy collar linked by two thick, snaking cables plugged into the ground. Dean has watched him for the past fifteen minutes trying to rock his body – _the table and its legs are metal and welded to the floor_ – wrench his hands – _the cuffs are tight and huge around Sam’s wrists_ – toss his head – _the cords under the collar are reinforced, industrial grade_ – only to sag against the tabletop as he came to the same conclusion Dean had. He isn’t going anywhere without help.

Dean is going to stay alive and be that help, so he relaxes his fingers and breathes deep.

Judging by the cowboy boots clunking down the hall, Dean guesses the doctor is in just in time to turn a glare towards the door as it opens. “Not even a magazine to read?” he clips, “What kind of doctor’s office is this, Jimmy?”

Sam had guessed werewolves or ghouls, but of fucking course, it was just Jimbo the black-market, equal-opportunity body seller. Just their shitting luck they’d checked for wards, but not for aerosol cans of chloroform in the vents.

“Sorry to keep y’ waiting,” Jim gives him that same fucking smile he’d given Agents Bones and Booth yesterday as he’d sent them on their way. He sits down with a sigh, “Took a while making sure everything was set up all proper.”

“Everything like what?” Dean sneers, “I’m a little young for a colonoscopy.”

Jim just sighs, folding his hands and shaking his head. “You gotta understand something, Dean, I really am a nice guy.” Dean doesn’t react to hearing his real name, knows better and knows it doesn’t make a lickety-shit of difference at this point.

“We’re real different people, but I ain’t pick this life anymore ‘en you did,” he motions dismissively, “wasn’t our fault we wound up this way, but here we are. Now, I gotta make some choices: me and mine or you and yours, and well…” he tips his head with a sympathetic smile, “if it was you, how would you choose?”

Dean doesn’t grace him with an answer, but knows his eyes hold the promise of everything he would do to anyone who threatened his family, especially the one Jim’s got restrained somewhere.

“Exactly,” Jim says, “So we gotta break up the band. No more Winchester Brothers, understand?”

“Fuck you,” Dean spits, but Jim raises his hands pacifyingly.

“No, no, listen to me now. It works like this. I ain’t gon’ kill him, alright? Sam seems like a real nice fella,” he nods as if he’s agreeing with himself, “good head on his shoulders and a good heart. I can respect that, especially after all he’s been through. I ain’t even gonna torture him! Wouldn’t do me a lick’a good seein’ as to how he’s danced with the Devil himself, lord ‘a mercy…”

“There a point to this?” Dean cuts in sharply. So he’s not going to kill or torture him, Dean can’t take solace in that knowing they’re not walking out of here. He doesn’t know what the twist is, and he wants it out, _now_.

Jim doesn’t seem to take offence at his tone. “The point, son, is that we can’t have y’all as a team any more. You two keep killing off a big portion of my client pool and now you’ve got your sights on me. That’s gotta change, but,” he smiles and throws his arms out, “because I’m a nice sorta guy, there’s a few ways we can do that.” He turns to the crystal-clear image on the computer screen, tapping his finger against the black band around Sam’s throat. “That there is a shock collar.”

Dean has felt shock collars before and keeps his face carefully, blankly cold even as the thought of what one plugged into an actual wall socket could do to a person sends his mind reeling.

“I can have my buddy here flip this switch and that device ‘round your brother’s neck’ll send 400 volts right to his head. Now, in my semi-professional opinion, that _prolly_ won’t kill him,” Jim sucks his teeth and sighs, “but he’s gonna drool for the rest of his life. No more hunting monsters, just soft food and dopey smiles while his big brother changes his diaper.” The smile he gives Dean is so honest Dean has to fight back the urge to spit in his face, “I can live with that.”

“I’ll kill you,” Dean promises lowly.

“You can try,” Jim shrugged almost absently, “but would you _really_ trust just any ol’ Tom, Dick, or Harry to raise _your_ baby? ‘cause that’s what he’ll be.” He sits back in his seat, “Lessen’ we twist things up a bit.”

“Meaning?”

Jim looks at him down the bridge of his nose, considering. “You can go down there and fuck him instead.”

“What the _hell!?_ ” Dean doesn’t even realize he’s stood until he’s shoved back into his seat by Goon #3. He’s too dizzy to even think about coordinating and effort to steal his gun, even without the threat of Sam getting electrocuted. He falls back down roughly, glaring Jim down. “ _Fuck you!!_ ”

“That ain’t an option,” Jim chuckles, unfazed. “You go down there, right now, and you fuck your little brother until you come and walk out without a _word_.” He counts off on his fingers as he continues, “You speak to him, you try to tap out Morse code on his shoulder, you try to choke him out to spare him, you even _look in his damn eyes_ too long,” he taps the screen, “I’m gonna know and I’m gonna throw the switch. If you need to get it moving, I might pop him one real gentle like, but that’s it. No three strikes, no second chances.”

Dean is going to be sick.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re gonna try and tempt me to kill you,” Jim stands up, waving his hand about flippantly. “Start shit talking to find my hot button or attack me or something. Maybe even steal a gun and eat the bullet yourself, but then, well,” he pauses, like he truly finds his words distasteful, “ _Then_ I’d have to kill him, because we both know he’d try to avenge you and we can’t have that neither.” He scratches absently at his chin. “You Winchesters also got a way of not stayin’ dead. So we don’t need you dead, we need you broke.”

The choice is an obvious one, except for all the ways it isn’t.

Part of him – the guilty, traitorous part – thinks that Sam getting his head reset might be what’s good for him; a way to forget hell, to forget Stanford and Jess, to forget all the things he’s had to kill in between there and here. He thinks if Sam was a little kid again, Dean could… he would _know_ how to take care of him, make him happy again. Sam would never even have to know anything went wrong, Sam Winchester could just be Sammy again. But Dean knows that decision holds too much risk. What if it does worse than wipe Sam’s mind? What if he’s paralyzed or seeing Lucifer again? What if it _does_ kill him? Even if it doesn’t, if monsters come for them while he’s sitting on the couch playing with a puzzle, even as big as he is, he won’t be able to defend himself. And the monsters _will_ come for them, that’s just their lives.

But it’s more than that, even.

Sam always talks about the choices he made leading him to this life, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it; he’s talked about accepting it. The biggest fight they’ve ever had was about Dean thinking he should be able to decide what happens to Sam’s body, _to Sam_. Dean could scream at the concept of having to choose for him now, but he thinks—no, he _knows_ what choice Sam would want, what Sam would choose for the both of them. He would never willingly lose part of his awareness again, would never put himself in a position where someone else had to control what happened to him for the rest of his life.

Sam would choose to live with the knowledge of what happened.

“What’s it gonna be, Dean?” Jim says and Dean feels the horror on his face, but he can’t get rid of it. “You gonna re-raise a 5 year ol’ Sammy or fuck the one you already raised?”

“You sick fuck!” Dean grits out.

“Me or you, boy?” Jim laughs to himself, leaning across the table to whisper in his face. “You’d only say that if you was thinking about door two. Prolly ‘fore I even said it.”

A denial is right on the tip of his tongue, but then he hears a voice he’d forced himself to forget about shout “ _brotherfucker!_ ” in the back of his mind. It was just some asshole high schooler whose jaw he’d broken immediately following the word, but the thing was, Dean hadn’t been angered by the words, not really. He’d been _terrified_ by them.

Dean Winchester has spent almost all of his waking life looking after, chasing after, caring about, worrying about, loving, loving, _loving_ his little brother. He couldn’t ever, at any point, deny that he loved Sam more than he loved anyone else; that was never a secret. But the fact that some fucking shit-talking, backwater nobody could look him in his eyes and pin-point the one thing he was _terrified_ of becoming was _unacceptable_. He would never touch Sam like that, _never_ , but being called out like that… it gave him doubt about his own resolution.

The times he thought of Sam – who’d grown into his body, into his own personality, who’d grown under _Dean’s guidance_ – in a way that he shouldn’t, in a way that made his body hot and his skin too tight, scared the shit out of him. He never chased that desire, even on his own, he never let himself think about it as he shivered in a cold shower or stood with sleeting rain stinging off his skin. He never let himself take pleasure in those thoughts, but… But if this guy, who’d known them for less than a day, could find that darkness in Dean…

Is that who he is deep down? Does everyone know that the worst thing about him is what he would do to Sam?

Because he is going to do this, isn’t he? It isn’t even a real question.

Dean clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes, stomach rolling.

Jim nods, satisfied. “Figured as much,” he sits back down, pointing out the door. “All the way down the stairs to your left, first door on the right.”

_Dean can’t._

“I need a condom,” he hears himself say, hands shaking in fists on the table.

“Nope,” Jim pulls the screen closer to him, “You get whatever’s in that room, nothing else. Get some spit on your dick if it’ll make it easier.” His eyes are as cool as Dean has seen them yet when he looks up at Dean, “But there ain’t gon’ be anything between you two, not anymore. Never again.”

Dean turns like he means to stand, but freezes in the middle of the motion. He closes his eyes again. “Please,” he says quietly. “We’ll go, we won’t—”

“No words, no codes, no second chances,” Jim cuts him off gently, “I’m a man of my word, Winchester, don’t make me hurt him.” He points out the door, “Get in there, do your business, and you can come out and I’ll call a burner to tell you were the keys are. Everyone goes home tonight.”

It takes a moment, but eventually Dean gets up like it physically hurts him.

As he walks out of the exam room, he can feel the point of every gun angled at him, feels the temptation to jump for one. He knows he wouldn’t make it, but he would eat a bullet for Sam, he would. It kills him that that’s the worse option. It feels like he’s not even in his own body as he walks down the hall to the stairs, he can hardly hear his own steps over the sound of his heart beat. He gets to what some part of him recognizes is a basement operating room, but he can’t care about it, can’t even process the thoughts. He steps through the first door on the right.

Sam’s face lights up as soon as he sees him.

“Dean—!” The relief in his eyes dampens immediately, Dean’s name clipping off in his mouth as his eyes go wide with fear. Dean’s going to be sick. “What’s wrong?”

Dean doesn’t answer him, hopes to everything in heaven that Sam can read on his face that he’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry. He looks up at the camera on the wall above Sam’s head and crosses behind him without a word.

Sam twists to follow him as Dean moves. “Dean, what’s going on? Talk to me!”

_I want to, I want to,_ Dean thinks desperately, but keeps his lips pressed together.

Sam kicks out in blind panic when Dean reaches under him to undo his belt. “What the hell? What are you— _hey!_ ” he tries to clench his legs together when Dean tries to pull his pants down, “Dean, what’s happening? I—”

Dean puts a hand on Sam’s back, fingers splayed and completely, visibly unmoving. His heart sinks when Sam goes completely still in response. It isn’t a code, but it’s enough; Dean isn’t going to stop and Sam’s not going to fight him at all.

“Ok, ok, wait,” Sam says even as he lets Dean yank his pants down before unzipping his own, “Wait, are you—? _Dean!?_ ”

Fisting himself roughly isn’t working, even as he tries to give in; he tries to make himself think about Sam’s body, Sam splayed out on a table just for him. He tries to make it sexy, but he can’t even wrap his head around what’s supposed to happen here. How quick is Jim going to get tired of watching him strip his own dick, soft and irritated, and throw the switch on principle? Switching tactics, he tries to think of literally anyone else; he’s trained himself for _years_ not to think of Sam this way, not to react to his body; he doesn’t know how to let that go. But his porn habit betrays him and he suddenly can’t think of a single other person he’s attracted to.

_Touch him,_ something says, something that makes Dean bear his teeth and resist. _Touch him, come on, you know how this has to go, just touch—_

“Ow!” Sam exclaims over a soft snapping sound and Dean goes cold as the collar around his neck flashes slightly. “Son of a bitch!” he grunts, rolling his neck in discomfort.

Dean looks up desperately at the camera, he’s _fucking trying_. He stops pulling his own dick to reach down for Sam’s ass, causing his brother to jerk at the touch. It takes him a moment to actually be able to look down and a moment longer to even register the sight. He’s seen his brother every which way before, but never this part, never this close. His asshole is small and pink and flinches tighter when Dean strokes his thumb down his crack. Sam is shaking and tense under his hands and he won’t be able to jellydick his way in there. The clock is ticking. He’s panicking.

“Use lube?” Sam says shakily and Dean freezes. “Or spit,” he begs, “I can do it, but please, not like this…”

Jim had said he could do that. Jim is the only person giving him permission right now.

Dean spits in his palm and does his best not to vomit, wonders distantly if that would help. He presses his palm to Sam’s asshole, smearing as Sam twists against him.

“No, not like—” he turns to try and look at Dean, wincing when his shoulder pulls too far, “You gotta use your fingers. Or your tongue, because that’s not going to… Put your fingers in your mouth. Get as wet as you can. Please, Dean.”

Dean does exactly as Sam says, drooling around his own fingers and trying to pretend he’s somebody else. Trying to pretend this is some fucked up snuff film that’s given him nightmares, he’s not Dean and this is not Sam.

“I’ll try to relax for you, ok?” Sam says and his voice is a wobbling mess, but he doesn’t give room for doubt. “One finger at a time, just like a virgin.”

The thought makes Dean’s breath stutter in his chest for more reasons than one and he hates himself for most of them. He eases his finger in, watches it disappear into Sam’s ass a knuckle at a time.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Sam whispers, shifting his legs restlessly – _he’s so fucking tight, fluttering around Dean’s finger_ – and taking a deep breath, “pull and stretch, nice and gentle.”

Pulling and stretching, Dean tries to get with the program. He nearly jerks his hand out when he puts in the second finger, scissoring out and down, and Sam gasps, knee banging against the table. He barely bites back the concerned shout of Sam’s name when Sam speaks.

“It’s ok, I’m ok, I’m ok,” he babbles, “If you…if you want to be nice, curl your fingers like that again.”

It takes a moment for Dean to put together what Sam even means, but when he does, he’s rewarded with Sam’s breath stuttering out of him and his hips rolling back onto Dean’s hand, a soft curse slipping out of his mouth. He’s getting soft around Dean’s fingers, relaxing even as he sporadically clenches tight with a groan. Dean leans down a few minutes later and spits on his ring finger, letting it slide inside, too, skin prickling at Sam’s groan.

“It… doesn’t get easier past this,” Sam says softly even as Dean continues stroking his silky insides, but Dean had already suspected that. He’s not a _big_ guy, but it would take more time and lube than Jim is giving them, he knows that. But even getting Sam open won’t help if Dean can’t even _get it the fuck up_. There are tingles running through him that he can’t distinguish between disgust and arousal, but choking his dick doesn’t do anything but make him a little pink.

“Let me,” Sam says and Dean’s heart stalls in his chest, “Let me get some more spit on you.”

There’s a pause in which Dean doesn’t understand, but then his eyes fill with tears, his limp dick falling from his hands. This is happening _to_ Sam and he’s still trying to help, trying to make the going easier. Maybe he wants to bite Dean’s dick off – _Dean would probably even let him_ – but he thinks he knows better. Sam hears him struggling – _to hurt him_ – and wants to help – _Dean hurt him._

“Please, Dean?” Sam whimpers quietly, “You don’t have to say anything, just come here. Come around here. Just let me.”

Trying to control his breathing before it can break into crying, Dean scrubs his eyes on his sleeve and looks up at the camera. He keeps his hands out to his sides and his lips pressed shut as he moves to stand in front of Sam.

“Oh, Dee…” Sam says when he sees him, but Dean can’t even look down at him, stares up at the ceiling and tries to imagine something else, anything else. When his eyes catch on a cubbyhole above his head, he reaches towards it on a desperate whim, the other hand raised pacifyingly towards the camera. Even when the collar doesn’t pop in warning, he moves molasses slow when he slides it open. He is unsurprised to find the cabinet lacking anything that could be used as a weapon, nothing that could cut both cords quickly enough, but there _is_ a tube of ultrasound jelly. Dean tries not to notice his hand shaking as he grabs it, bringing it into view. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do, it’s better than half dried spit from a blowie.

Sam audibly swallows when he sees it. “Ok,” he says unsteadily, disbelievingly, “but you still…” He licks his lips, looking pained at the sight of Dean’s flaccid, irritated dick. “Let me.”

Dean doesn’t want to, doesn’t want this at all, but if he doesn’t… if he can’t get hard, then…

But the moment he feels Sam’s breath hot against his sensitive skin, he bites down on his lip to hold back the anguished – _aroused, fuck him, damn him to hell, **aroused**_ – sound that tries to sneak out. He flinches back, half turned away.

“No, no, come on,” Sam whispers, “Shut your eyes and think of whatever you have to. It’s ok, Dean— _ah!_ ” the collar flashes again, “Come on, _hold it up_.”

Fear is making his blood run to all the wrong places, but he shuts his eyes and steps forward, holding his dick out in front of him. He breathes out harshly at the warm brush of Sam’s mouth against his dick; it’s still sore where he’s tried to jerk it to hardness, but Sam’s tongue is soothing. He shutters and clenches his eyes shut when Sam takes the head into his mouth.

The part of him that wants to fight this is still screaming, but nothing can stop the effect Sam’s attention has on him – he’s getting hard in his brother’s mouth. Sam was just supposed to get him wet; that was all this was supposed to be, but Dean’s stomach twists with the knowledge that his little brother’s tendencies towards overachieving extend _here,_ too. He’s drooling, yes, obscenely, Dean can feel it dripping down to his balls, but he can also _hear_ it. The wet, slurping sounds of Sam sucking his dick, dragging his tongue everywhere he can reach. The angle is odd with his chin against the table, but Sam— _fuck_ , does Sam make it work. It’s good, it’s so good that Dean has the abrupt understanding that this is not Sam’s first rodeo. Even under such horrific circumstances, Sam’s head is one of the best things that has ever happened to Dean’s dick. His hair is standing on end, there isn’t enough air in the room to handle what Sam is doing for him. He nearly draws blood trying to keep himself silent when Sam swallows a few times before letting Dean slide against the back of his throat.

Guilt flares bright and hot to the front of his mind when his hips jerk forward, making Sam gag around him. He looks down instinctively to apologize, Sam’s eyes are sharp on his and he looks away, drawing back slightly. _Sorry._

His breath shutters out when Sam hollows his cheeks, pulling back to lick into Dean’s slit. _It’s ok._

This is as turned on as he can get.

This is as turned on as he’s ever been in his _life_ and he can’t think about that too hard. He’s intentionally blanking his thoughts out as he pulls out of Sam’s mouth, Sam spitting on him as he does. He moves quickly, before his right mind can reassert itself.

When he slathers his fingers up and slides them in, the sound of pleasure Sam lets out seems entirely involuntary. He’s moving quicker than he would like to – and he hates himself for even vaguely thinking of how he would _like_ to do this – but it’s slick and hot and – _he’s had his dick in Sam’s mouth_ – he’s shaking, he _wants_ to fuck Sam, he wants to _die_.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam snaps from where he’s sagged against the table, trembling but as relaxed as he could possibly be in the circumstances. His tone is clear, though. _Get on with it._

Dean squeezes the rest of the tube on his dick before tossing it aside. He pulls Sam’s ass apart and – _I’m sorry_ – forces himself inside.

It isn’t quite a scream, but Sam’s shout is an uncontrolled, strangled thing; no thought, no restraint. His legs flail out and he tenses and Dean’s eyes roll back even as he feels _sick_ as Sam clenches around him. He grits his teeth, growling and hoping that doesn’t count in Jim’s book because he can’t _stop, he can’t stop any of this._

“ _Fuck, fuck—!!_ ” Sam repeats until his voice breaks on what could be a snarl or a sob – Dean can’t let himself thing about it – when Dean moves his hips against the dragging tightness. It isn’t great; it’s too tight and the lube isn’t made for this and Sam’s grunts _can’t be_ out of pleasure, but it’s Sam and Sam will never cease to get a rise out of—“ _Dean!_ ”

Dean’s got his hands on Sam’s hips, but he’s not sure when they got there or why he’s holding Sam down like that. It’s not helping, it’s not helping anything at all, but he’s bruising Sam’s hips with his fingers like everything else wasn’t already _enough._ He so out of his own body that the pleasure he’s feeling almost doesn’t register until he realizes Sam is hardly moving beneath him. His vision goes slant when he looks down, Sam’s asshole an aggravated shade of red, pulsing as Dean forces his dick in and out of his _little brother, his Sammy, he’s—_

He can’t be sure what noise he makes, but it’s loud and he’s making it against Sam’s back. His nose hurts like he fell over, but he’s confused – this is wrong, everything is wrong and Dean doesn’t even feel like a person anymore.

“Dean, _no_ ,” Sam wheezes, against the pain, against Dean’s weight on his back. He starts babbling erratically, “Come on, whatever this is, get it done, get up, Dean, I’ll be ok, it’s ok, you can do it, just do it, _please._ ”

Dean is crying now, silently, but still so hard he can hardly draw in a proper breath, tears spilling hot against Sam’s back. But he won’t draw this out, he won’t let his own emotional bullshit – _he caused this, they should’ve let it go, they should’ve called the_ real _FBI_ – cause Sam any more pain than necessary. He’s moving without even thinking about it and, pretty soon, Sam’s hip bones are jamming against the table with his movement. He’s gone limp beneath Dean, the weak, involuntary breath that accompanies each thrust the only thing letting Dean know Sam is even still conscious. He’s soft and loose around Dean and Dean can’t help how close to coming he is.

“ _Please,_ ” Sam slurs one last time, so softly it’s almost more breath that word, and Dean grinds erratically up into Sam, his orgasm passing so quickly into the steep drop after that it hardly counts as pleasure, but it _does_ and Dean is moaning, long and drawn out and _miserable_. He’s frozen there, eyes wide and unseeing, _he’s not here, he can’t be, that doesn’t make sense, the world isn’t like that, he and Sam are not—Dean did not just—he can’t be here, he—_

“Dean?”

Dean lurches away from Sam like he’s been scald, wincing at the sound his brother makes as Dean’s _dick_ is jerked out of his asshole, semen dribbling out behind it. Dean doesn’t know what happens to him at that sight, but he feels something in him shut off, something else break. He doesn’t even know if he can speak, he’s forgotten how.

He needs permission.

“Dean, _please_ …”

_Please._ Dean flinches, doesn’t even realize he’s started towards the door until he’s turning back. He’s barely turned his head towards Sam when instantly he wishes he hadn’t.

Sam’s head is laid against the table like he just can’t be bothered to pick it up, tears on his face and blood gathered under his cheek from where he’s bitten through his lip – Sammy’s hurt, Sammy’s bleeding.

_You’re why he’s hurt and bleeding._

Dean looks away.

“Is it over?” Sam slurs and he sounds so scared and young Dean recognizes the voice from over two decades ago, in a closet, hiding from a monster outside, _now a monster inside._ “Talk to me? Please?”

_You sick fuck._

Dean opens the door and shuts his eyes as Sam starts to shout.

“Dean! Dean, please don’t leave me here? What’s going on? We did it! It’s over— _Dean!!_ ”

There’s a ringing behind another door and something tells Dean it’s for him.

He doesn’t remember opening the door, or the desk inside, he doesn’t remember answering the phone. He knows he doesn’t speak, though, because Jim speaks for him. “ _See? As promised, it’s all over now. We’re all going home in one piece, you can go cut him loose. They keys are hanging on the wall in the closet._ ” Dean’s hand closes around them as Jim says it, he almost drops the phone until Jim continues, “ _You oughta know, kid. You’re the worst thing that coulda happened him and he’s still gon’ pick you. You just raped your baby brother and he’s_ still _gonna trust you, every time._ ”

 

//

 

Then there’s a gap, because Dean has moved.

He doesn’t know where the phone is, he can’t remember what he did with it. Does he still need it? No, no, he doesn’t. Sam isn’t hooked to the table anymore, there’s no death collar bruising his throat. He’s just there on the floor across the room – _to be away from Dean probably_ – slumped over to one side – _keeping off the place where Dean hurt him_ – looking right at Dean and singing— _singing?_

Dean’s brain clears just long enough to hear “ _into your heart, then you can start to make it better_ ” over someone shouting “ _Boys!?_ ” before he can feel his lungs seizing in his chest; his pants are up and his underwear is gummy against his dick.

Abruptly, Dean can’t even breathe.

Bobby should not be turning towards him, not with Sam on the ground like that. Dean _should not_ be the one with his head between his knees, vision greying out around the edges while Bobby walks him through remembering how to breathe. Dean should not be a lot of things, but he can’t help it, he can’t.

_There ain’t gon’ be anything between you two, not anymore._

_Never again._

Dean throws up on himself.

 

//

 

Then there’s a gap, because Dean has moved.

He’s laying down in the Impala, but he’s not in the driver’s seat. Something is wrong – _a lot is wrong_ – because he’s laying down against the _back_ of the back seat, like the car is slanted towards the sky, as though perched on a cliff in a cartoon. Nothing about it seems real.

Bobby’s face is real though, staring down at him sternly and holding out his hand.

“Take the pills, Dean,” Bobby says.

Dean feels like he doesn’t tell his hand to move, but there it is, reaching towards Bobby like it’s decided it doesn’t need his permission anymore. He takes the pills and swallows them dry and doesn’t register how much that scares Bobby, how his face tenses even further. Dean doesn’t get the time to think about it much longer, though, because Bobby shuts the door and walks away.

Dean hears the rumble of an unfamiliar engine for all of about a whole minute, before he blacks out.

 

//

 

Then there’s a gap, because Dean has moved.

When Dean comes to, he’s on Bobby’s couch and for a blissful half second, he thinks he’s been there all night. When the reality of him wearing clothes he’s never seen before hits – _clothes that aren’t sticking to him_ – he crumbles and at once launches up off the couch. “Samm—”

“He’s sleep and you’d do good not to wake him up.” Dean turns to find Bobby slouched in the chair beside the sofa, watching him closely. “Hell of a day you boys had and I still had to tell him the pill’d keep you out ‘til morning to get him to lay down.”

Dean goes cold all over as the words click together in his head. He stares wide eyed at Bobby. “He told you,” he rasps, wonders if Bobby’s got a gun tucked into that chair.

“He _told me_ he was hooked to some gizmo that’d fry his brain, yeah,” Bobby narrows his eyes at him. “I reckon you’re nicer than a deep fryer.”

Dean shuts his eyes because he isn’t sure about that.

“Oh, boy,” Bobby says and sits up straighter, “He said you were doing that.”

“Sam?” Dean says softly in confusion, like it’s a strange concept for Sam to say anything about him.

Bobby just sighs at him, “Yeah, Sam. Sam Winchester? Your brother, whose life you saved, who’s upstairs sleeping it off right now? That Sam.” He leans closer. “He told me you shut down like I needed more than my eyes to put that together.”

Dean’s jaw clenches and he looks resolutely at the floor. “This never should’ve happened.”

“Sure as shit shouldn’t have,” Bobby agrees, “but you didn’t strap Sam to a jacked up cattle prod.”

“Shouldn’t you be taking care of _him_?” Dean snarls, because somebody sure should and Dean sure can’t and that drags a cold spot through his chest. He doesn’t know what his purpose is if he can’t even take care of Sam.

“Son, I take care of both my boys,” Bobby retorts. “Sam ain’t hurt in anyway that’s permanent.”

Dean starts to snap that there’s no way that’s true, when Bobby comes forward and Dean’s suddenly caught in a hug so tight, it nearly squeezes the breath out of him.

“If I ever thought for even a second you were out of control and a danger to Sam, I’d make sure you never saw him again,” Bobby promises lowly.

It should be a threat. It _should_ be, but it sounds too much like reassurance for Dean to even muster up any offence should he have felt it. Instead, he feels tears in his throat.

“I know all about hard choices, so does Sam,” Bobby continues. “We all got stuff to live with that we wish we didn’t know, had never done, even if it was necessary.”

Dean doesn’t even pull out of Bobby’s arms, muttering into his shoulder. “This is not the same thing.”

Sam has to be in danger, that’s his _job_ , but if anything, Sam should be safe from Dean – Dean should _protect_ Sam. He wouldn’t blame Sam for cutting him off completely for this _failure_ , though the thought sends tears pouring down his face. Jim was right. Dean only exists relative to Sam and if Sam doesn’t want him – and Sam _shouldn’t_ want the worst thing that’s happened to him – then Dean isn’t sure he’ll know how to exist, can’t think of a good reason why he should.

Nobody who could get it up in a scenario like that _should._

“Maybe it isn’t. But I’ll tell ya what,” Bobby says. “If he wakes up and hates you tomorrow, you can hate yourself right round the barrel of a loaded gun. I won’t stop you.”  His arms tighten around Dean’s shoulders, “But right now, believe me when I say you’re the reason I still got two sons. You’re the reason he’s upstairs asleep and not in a coma or worse. He knows that.”

“How? _I couldn’t say it,_ ” Dean chokes and he has not cried in anyone’s arms since he was a toddler. “ _I couldn’t even say it!_ ”

Sam couldn’t even give him permission; yeses don’t mean anything when no is not an option, but Dean couldn’t even give him the curtesy of _knowing_.

“Ask him tomorrow,” Bobby says, “You both can say everything you gotta tomorrow.”

Bobby doesn’t let him go for a long time after that and even when he does, it’s just to shut off the light and come back to the couch, like they’re sitting watch. Dean isn’t sure who’s watching what, but he knows this is a loving kindness he doesn’t deserve and, likewise, can’t refuse. Bobby isn’t going to leave him alone when he knows Dean can’t sleep and is entertaining thoughts of guns. Bobby was the one that’d told him the nights _After_ were the hardest part in the first place. When Bobby offers him half a pill, it doesn’t feel like a suggestion.

Dean takes it.

 

//

 

When Dean wakes this time, the sun is up, his mouth is dry, and he wants to vomit.

The feeling passes, barely, and he sits up slowly, feeling like the world is a different place. Feeling like just _maybe_ it doesn’t matter, because it’s not going to be his world much longer. When he manages to get to his feet, shove them into his boots and stand, he can hear Bobby puttering around in the kitchen.

“He’s around back,” Bobby says before Dean can even speak. He doesn’t turn around from where he’s washing dishes, only pausing to hand Dean the bottom half of is beer.

Dean drinks it without comment, clearing his throat. His breath seizes in his chest after. “Bobby, I—”

“He stole my gun,” Bobby interrupts and panic flares up sharp and bright in Dean’s chest. He’s running out the door before Bobby says anything else.

Sprinting through the junkyard is not an unfamiliar feeling, but the stark terror fueling Dean’s body as he runs is new. “Sammy!” he screams, because of course he does.

“Over here,” Sam calls back and Dean’s heart does a strange jig, but he follows the sound unerringly to where Sam is sitting against the side of a dead or dying tree, squinting straight ahead through the patchy sunlight. Dean’s stomach turns when Sam struggles slightly to get to his feet.

“Sammy…” he says again, voice breaking.

“I know how awful this is, I do,” Sam says, face stern though flushed as he turns to face Dean, “but we do have to talk about this.”

“I’ll leave,” Dean blurts, “You don’t—you don’t have to give anything else up, Sammy, I’ll go right—”

“ _What?_ ” Sam asks sharply and Dean raises his hands.

“Or—or _you_ can go, I won’t chase you this time, I promise,” Dean says, tears making his throat tight. “I know how bad I messed up, I know I can’t fix this.”

Sam’s face twists. “There’s nothing for you to _fix_ , Dean, that’s what we have to talk about.”

“Stop trying to protect me,” Dean snaps, though it comes out weak and shaky.

“I’m not saying it just to protect you, I’m saying it because it’s true,” Sam says in a trembling version of the patient voice he uses when he’s actively trying not to get angry.

Dean shakes his head, angry at himself, at Sam for pretending _not_ to be angry, at the universe for this _whole damn situation._ “No, I should’ve been protecting you, I shouldn’t’ve let you make it easy for me to…” his voice wobbles, “I should’ve found a way to _tell_ you, but I just _violated—_ ”

“Dean, do you honestly think I’m that stupid?” Sam snaps, breaking into the rising hysteria of Dean’s voice. “I knew right away something was wrong, I didn’t tell you to stop because I knew you were my best bet!”

“How could you have known that!?”

Sam huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh except for how it’s not funny at all. He sounds frustrated and terrified. “Partly, because my big book-smart brain told me even a filtered blow from a wall socket would be _lights out_. Partly, because of _you_ ,” he motions at Dean, face twisted with sincerity. “You didn’t see another way out, I could read that off your face. I don’t always have to _trust_ you, Dean, sometimes I just _know_ you. I know you love me enough to do anything for me, even hurt yourself.” He deflates a little, voice lowering, “So please stop asking me to hurt you, too. That would make this whole thing worse, because… _Dean_.”

Sam turns away, putting his head in his hands for a moment. When he looks up again, it’s the most broken look Dean has ever seen on his face. “Dean, tell me you knew,” he whispers.

“ _Knew_?” Dean barks, because Dean didn’t know a damn thing. If Sam is asking if he knew the socket would kill or maim him, yes (but also not for sure). If he’s asking if he knew he’d be able to get it up for Sam, no (but also not for sure). If he’s asking if he thinks he made the right decision, _yes but then no (and neither for sure)_. Dean doesn’t know anything for certain anymore. “Knew _what,_ Sam?”

Sam winces, looking away. He bites his lip and Dean sees the raw line of scab-brown where he’d bitten through it just yesterday and his gut churns. Then Sam speaks and his train of thought derails. “There isn’t a single thing I haven’t imagined doing to you,” Sam admits softly, guiltily, eyes locked on the ground.

Dean opens his mouth to voice his confusion, but then it freezes there, understanding tickling on the edges of his mind about what those words could imply. He feels the blood draining from his face. “What are you saying?”

“Not a _single_ thing,” Sam reiterates emphatically, though the words shake in his mouth.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean gasps, stumbling backwards.

“You didn’t do this to me, you didn’t _make_ me this way,” Sam assures him, one hand raised as if to ward off a blow and offer recompense all at once. “You didn’t even know I…” He swallows, “You took care of me when you could’ve hurt me so badly.”

“You _were_ hurt!” Dean shouts. “You bit yourself bloody and _cried_ and I didn’t stop!”

“You _couldn’t_ stop, there’s a difference,” Sam says softly. “And you’re bigger than most guys I’m used to taking that quickly.”

Dean flashes hot and cold. “That doesn’t change—”

“That doesn’t change that I’d do it again,” Sam says and everything in Dean’s head goes fuzzy and white. Sam’s smile is hollow right up to his eyes. “Even without the collar, without the threat of getting an electric icepick up the nose, I’d do it all again.”

Dean feels sick. “Don’t fucking lie to make me feel better, don’t fuck around with stuff like that!” he grits and watches Sam’s face flash towards true anger.

“I’m not fucking—! Dean, what do you want me to say!?”

“Tell me that this is it!” Dean shouts and scrubs angrily at his face when his tears overflow, “Tell me that out of all the shit I put you through, after you _tried so damn hard_ to get out, after I dragged you back in, got you sent to _hell_ —”

“Dean, That was _my choice_ —”

“Tell me that this is the one thing that took it too far!! Tell me…” Dean tosses his hands up, giving up the fight to keep his face dry, “Tell me you’re finally giving up on me, please, I can’t do this.”

“Do _what_?”

“Live with you thinking this was ok!” Dean snaps but then whimpers the awful truth, “I _raped_ you, Sam.”

“You didn’t have a _choice_!” Sam shouts. “You were a victim in this, too!”

“I came in you!!” Dean shrieks back, “I fucking—I _liked_ it, I liked it enough to come in you!! Is that your idea of ok!? Of some—” Dean turns and kicks a dent in an old sedan “— _sick fuck_ enjoying railing his little brother who _can’t even fight back!?_ ”

Sam draws in a long breath, face tense. And Dean has a moment to think that’s done it, that he’s finally gotten the message across in a way that lets Sam accept his disgust, his betrayal. When Sam suddenly advances on him, he expects to get hit, hell, he _wants_ it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even raise his hands to protect himself. Sam gets about two steps closer than should be necessary for a punch, but Dean doesn’t realize why until Sam is in his face, whispering, “I’ve fantasized about you pinning me down and coming in my ass since I was sixteen.”

Dean shoves him away. “Shut the fuck up!”

Sam is exhausted enough to look mean now, to look like he’s intent to raze just about anything if Dean is intent on going down like this. He scoffs, a tired, ugly sound. “I’d be relieved that you never knew if not for how much it’s screwing with your head right now.”

“You’re lying!” Dean says and very nearly shuts his eyes and covers his ears like a tantruming child.

“I used to wake up humping the sheets with your name stuck in my _throat_ and cry myself to sleep after I felt so guilty about it,” Sam mutters and Dean can hear those tears clogging his voice right now, but _he can’t believe them_. “I ran all the way to _Cali-fucking-fornia_ because I didn’t want you to know how messed up I was.”

“That is not why you went to Stanford,” Dean protests weakly.

“I went for a lot of reasons and that was the one you would’ve never guessed. I never wanted…” Sam stops, looking away. “I never thought we’d _have_ a first time, but I can’t say I never imagined it’d be like this.”

Dean rears back like he’s been struck. “ _You thought I’d_ —”

“I imagined someone might force _you_ ,” Sam corrects before Dean can even get the thought out. He shrugs, though it looks like he’s lifting a lot more than just his shoulders, “Our lives are already so fucked up, man. Maybe a spell or a witch, hell, maybe fucking _alien sex dust_ , whatever I never thought…” He blows out a frustrated breath, “I know you’d never crossed that line with me unless you _had_ to. So if you’re fucked up for enjoying it, so am I. It’s…” His face flickers, for the first time towards true pain. “It’s not even the nastiest way I’ve seen it go down between us,” he says in the same dead voice he only uses in reverence to one thing.

_Hell._

Sam’s mouth curls like he can taste it when he says, “I’ve come thinking about my blood on your dick, Dean.”

Dean takes another staggering step back. There are a million things he wants to ask, a million things he never wants to know, but all of them get confused and jam in his throat. He doesn’t have a single thing to say, there’s nothing that he could do to make this situation better.

When Sam pulls Bobby’s revolver out of his waistband, Dean feels the real world is firmly out of his grasp and maybe he never really even had it. Sam looks down at the gun. “There’re only two bullets left in this,” he says.

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean croaks.

“Can you live with what happened or not?” Sam asks shakily, “Because I’m _not_ leaving you or blaming you for what happened.” His face waffles towards tears for the first time, “Whether you liked it or hated it, I will never hate _you,_ Dean.”

“You _should_.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Sam says firmly, “Do you hate me for the way I felt at sixteen?”

Dean flinches. “Sammy, _no_ , you were just a kid.”

Sam’s voice is low and pained when he asks, “Do you hate me for feeling that way _now_?”

_You don’t_ , is the first thing that comes to Dean’s mind, followed closely by, _You can’t._ Dean knows how much he means to Sam, how much they would give and have given for each other, but this is not the same, Sam can’t be the way Dean is, he just—

Dean tried so damn hard to make sure he wouldn’t be. “I never wanted this for you, I…”

“ _You didn’t make me this way,_ ” Sam insists again, “I know you didn’t want this, but this is what we have. _Do you hate me for it?_ ”

The truth comes out before Dean can even consider any other answers. “I could never hate you for anything.”

Sam sags with genuine relief and Dean can’t believe Sam ever even questioned that. “Then please don’t ask me to hate you for being like me, Dean,” he says, “That hurts more than anything else did.”

Dean shakes his head, looking away. “I didn’t…” he begins tearfully, “You never knew, did you? I never made you…”

“No,” Sam agrees easily. “I had no _clue_. I hid it for years because I knew it would hurt you, I didn’t… I didn’t know if you could live with me if you knew.”

“I love you more than anything in the goddamn world,” Dean says, but then he’s sobbing. “ _I just don’t know what to do_.” Because Sam doesn’t blame him and he doesn’t blame Sam, but this is still so fucked, he still _did this_ and he doesn’t know how to wrap his head around it, let alone carry it for the rest of his life.

Dean hears the gun hit the ground a second before Sam’s arms close around him.

“Just a day at a time, Dean,” he says, his hands warm and comforting on Dean’s back. “We’ve made it that way before, we’ll make it that way now. The right choice has always been us against the world.” He drops his face to Dean’s shoulder, “I love you so much, Dean, I don’t want to do this without you.”

…It’s not even really a question when Dean thinks about it that way. He knows what he deserves, he knows in the end he’s probably going to get it, too. But Sam is a good man and a good brother, Sam is as good as _hell-forged good_ can come. Sam deserves whatever the hell Sam wants, even if it’s Dean sticking around.

“O…Okay.” Dean thinks maybe Jim had it backwards, or at least not all the way right. Sam isn’t the one who trusts his brother more than his good sense, it’s _Dean_. Dean finally hears the honesty that had been in Sam’s voice, hears the love and lack of blame. He hears Sam’s faith that they will be ok, that they can get past this. It makes Dean feel a relief so bright and sharp, he can’t stop crying. “Okay,” he says again, thumping Sam hard on his back, making the man chuckle softly. “I’m here, Sammy. We got this.” He can do this.

The smile that gets him when he finally pulls back makes him feel even more like maybe his place in Sam’s life doesn’t have to be just an unfortunate memory.

Even more so when Sam snorts, “ _You bitch_ ” and scrubs Dean’s face with his sleeve, laughing when Dean shoves him off.

 

//

 

Bobby glances at them when they come back inside, tension visibly draining from his shoulders. “Good choice,” he mutters. “We’ll work out ‘ _handling_ ’ the not-so-good doctor later. Now, wash up and set the table.” When neither of them move he turns around, sizes them up. “Well, hold hands if it’ll make you feel better, but hop to!” he snaps.

They hold hands and hop to.

 

//

 

The fact that Dean is able to sleep that night says a lot about the power of Sam’s persuasive abilities. Dean thinks, fondly albeit a bit sadly, before nodding off that Sam _would_ make a great lawyer. He could convince the judge, jury, victim, _and_ perpetrator that they had the wrong guy. He’s in the middle of some weird dream involving just that when he snaps awake to his mattress dipping. A familiar hand finds his wrists before he can pull out his gun.

 “Sam?”

“Just wanted to check on you,” Sam says quietly, sliding into bed beside him, “but you look comfortable.”

“I _was_ ,” Dean grumbles, rolling over and sleepily gravitating towards Sam’s warmth. He’s abruptly awake when Sam slides closer until they’re completely pressed together. “Sammy?”

“Our first kiss,” Sam says and Dean freezes, “can that be a good memory?” He presses his forehead to Dean’s, “I know our first time is gone, but this – being safe at Bobby’s, after sticking together after someone tried to break us apart, warm and _alive and glad_. Can that be our memory of our first kiss?”

Dean feels himself getting choked up.

“I won’t be mad if you say no,” Sam says quickly, pulling back a bit.

“We can’t pretend this didn’t happen, Sam!” Dean whispers frantically.

“No,” Sam agrees, “but if you don’t want… anything like that, the discussion is over. I’ll let it go. Not _you_ ,” he modifies hastily, “but just this part of it.”

Dean stares at him for a long time, not exactly thinking, but his mind flickering from place to place involuntarily. He wants to kiss Sam and he wants to go back to the time when neither of them even knew they wanted to kiss each other. But. Well…

Only one of those things is possible now.

He swallows, “This is going to be so hard.”

“Our _lives_ are hard,” Sam says and Dean doesn’t realize the opening for a joke he just gave until Sam gracefully passes it up. “We’re going to get hurt, Dean, but we don’t have to hurt each other. If this would hurt too much for you, I won’t hate you for protecting yourself by saying no. I want you to do that if you have to. But I _do_ want you to know that _yesterday_ doesn’t have to be your memory of…” He shifts like he’s getting comfortable, but Dean can sense the anxiety in the motion. “Of my body.”

Dean remembers a lot of things about Sam’s body, but Sam has a point about the taint this has put on all of them. The bile Dean fights back in that moment is all rage, all for Jim – sometime within the past few hours he decided he doesn’t have anger to spare for himself. “I want that memory obliterated,” he says sharply, but then looks uncertain. “But I don’t want you to think… that’s not why I’d…”

“I know that’s not why,” Sam says. “Though honestly, I’d be ok if it was the only reason.” He shushes, shaking his head when Dean goes to protest. “I don’t want that to be my memory of your body either,” he lowers his voice, rubbing their noses together. Dean closes his eyes and fights for breath. “It could be so good for us, Dean.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Dean whispers back and he’s already set to trembling. His hand comes up to Sam’s side, clutching his shirt. “Sam…”

“Nobody but us, Dean,” Sam says and his breath is warm against Dean’s mouth. “You can say _anything you want_. Yes or no, this not that, tell me all the reasons why which,” he gets bold, drags his lips down Dean’s cheek, “We’ve had enough taken from us. All I care about is what we’re willing to take back and keep.”

Dean’s breath shudders out when Sam’s leg presses between his. He isn’t quite hard, but the warmth and contact of his brother has pleasure singing down his spine. “I want…”

“What do you want?” Sam says and it’s not a line, it’s a genuine question. Dean’s heart is thudding. “I know how much it hurt you to not be able to tell me, but you can say anything now,” he pulls back a fraction. “Even if it’s not sexy, I want to hear it.”

“Sammy,” Dean breathes in his brother’s scent and it lights him up as much as it calms him down, settles and ignites something deep in his soul. _They share a heaven_.

“Tell me,” Sam says. “I want all of it.”

For once, Dean lets Sam drag him past his silent stoicism. _They’ve had enough taken from them, enough beaten out of them._

“I was sick to death,” Dean confessed into the tiny space between them. “I hated that someone saw through me, saw right down to the one thing I never wanted anyone to know about me.” He reaches up for Sam’s face, hesitantly like he might not be allowed. Sam turns and kisses his palm as Dean watches in wounded awe. “I love you so much, Sammy, but _Dr. Jekyll_ saw that and he used it against me, used _me_ against you and I was _sick._ ” He keeps stroking Sam’s face like he can’t quite help himself, “I know how important it is for you to choose, you had so much happen…” He chokes on his words, “I thought I knew what you’d want, but I made choices for you _again_ …”

“You chose right,” Sam says softly, rubbing his hand soothingly down Dean’s side. “Dean, I’d rather be right here with you, just like this, than know what it’s like to lose my mind again. I couldn’t have gone through that again,” he adds softly. “I already told you, I’d do it all again.”

Dean shuts his eyes again, rests his forehead against Sam’s. “I didn’t want to feel good for being another one of the bastards that violated you.”

“Don’t group yourself with them,” Sam whispers vehemently. “Please, I can’t think about you like that, I can’t.” His nose brushes Dean’s, “I felt like I was… _I_ was the one violating you.”

“ _What?_ ” Dean says, eyes snapping open.

“For enjoying something that clearly hurt you,” Sam explains with a wince. “ _You_ were crying, too, I could _feel_ the pain you were in and I still…” He swallows, “Dean, if you’d have even _reached around_ , I’d… I’d have lost it.”

 The idea of Sam coming from that flashes hotly, _guiltily_ through Dean’s whole body. His mouth goes dry. “You were…?”

Sam huffs, looking down shamefacedly. “The whole time.”

Something in Dean’s chest unlocks at that, a stifling heat suffusing out from the place that knot had been. His hand creeps up into Sam’s hair. “Lose that face,” he says, “I don’t want you to ever feel bad for…” he shakes his head, “ _any of it._ ”

“I don’t want you to feel bad either, Dean,” Sam says. “Please. Tell me what you want. Anything, Dean, just tell me.”

Dean doesn’t let himself think about it when he says, “Show me how to make you feel good.”

The love-struck look that crosses Sam’s face sets Dean’s heart to pounding. So do the words, “Just stay close to me.”

“Always, Sammy,” Dean promises, voice pitching low when Sam closes the gap between their lips.

It’s familiar for all the ways it is not; the only home Dean has ever had is in Sam.

The meeting of their lips sends warmth skittering down Dean’s spine like he’s finally, _finally_ home for good, locking the door and turning on the lights. He feels frantic with the urgency to solidify that feeling, whimpers he’ll be embarrassed about later sneaking out from between the seal of their lips. Sam holds him tight through it, meets his desperation with steady caresses, the press of his tongue between his brother’s lips.

Dean is already shaking in Sam’s arms, but the tremors ramp up a notch when Sam’s leg, still pressed between his, draws their hips together. Sam’s arousal is a hard line against his and Dean is coming undone, he’s going to cry – with arousal, relief, _fear_ , he isn’t exactly sure. Whatever it is, Sam tastes it on his lips and pulls back a bit.

Sam shushes him gently, kissing Dean’s face as Dean gasps for air. “It’s ok, we’re ok…” he says but his voice wavers into a moan when Dean hesitantly rocks his hips. “ _Yeah_ , Dean, that’s it.”

When Sam heaves up slightly so that he’s laid half over Dean, grinding their hips together, Dean feels… very right. With Sam’s mouth tenderly against his and Sam’s breath and hair tickling his face and Sam’s body pressing him into the mattress, slowly grinding their arousals together. Dean digs his fingers into Sam’s back and clings because this, _this_ is where he’s meant to be and he doesn’t want to leave. Anywhere with Sam is exactly where he’s meant to be.

He makes a desperate sound that he hopes isn’t as loud as it feels and rocks his hips up to meet Sam’s, the edges of an orgasm already tickling in his stomach. Sam’s tongue is the only thing stifling the noise he makes when Sam reaches between them to shove their pajama bottoms out of the way. The slick drag of Sam’s dick against his is more than Dean can take and he fists a hand in Sam’s hair, “ _Sam, Sammy, fuck—_ ”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sam whispers and when he leans down to bite Dean’s shoulder, stifling a groan with Dean’s flesh as he comes, Dean’s vision whites out. He’s never felt a pleasure so sharp it felt like it changed something about him as a person, but that’s what happens, that’s what this is – Dean’s coming and he isn’t sure who he is anymore, other than _Sam’s_ , other than an extension of his brother.

This time, the float back to reality after his orgasm is slow, like a gentle slide more than a steep drop. It takes him a moment to register Sam’s hand pressed over his mouth or Sam’s lips babbling dazedly against his ear.

“ _You’re so pretty like this, Dean, so fucking gorgeous. I want you to feel like this always,_ fuck _, Dean, you have no idea what I want to do to you. I can’t wait to get you somewhere you can scream all you like, Dean, I want to hear it, I want you to scream my name, I want you to be mine, I want to be_ yours, _I—_ ”

“ _Fuck,_ Sam,” Dean gasps against Sam’s palm, tears prickling his eyes. Partly because he’s embarrassed as _fuck_ that he got loud enough for Sam to _cover his mouth_ and is hoping Bobby’s room is far enough away that whatever Dean fucking _yodeled_ wasn’t discernable through the walls. But mostly because Sam sounds so wrecked and sincere; he’s not spinning shitty porno lines to be sexy, he just really wants Dean that badly. Just felt it strong enough that it slipped through his usually concrete self-control in his post-orgasm haze.

Sam tenses, moving his hand. “Too much?”

“ _No,_ ” Dean says and he has yet to turn Sam loose, but now is holding on even tighter. “No, fuck, it’s a fucking _lot_ , but it’s not too much, I’ve never…” He gets distracted by how close Sam’s face is, turning to kiss his heated cheek, then speak there. “I’ve never wanted to be anybody’s as badly as I want to be yours.” He clenches his eyes shut when Sam relaxes and turns to kiss the tears trickling out of his eyes.

“Then you are,” Sam says, “I’ve always wanted that, so if you want it, too, I’m never letting you go.” He laughs then, giddily, sleepily, “You jerk.”

“Don’t be a bitch,” Dean snaps like he isn’t crying, but happiness flashes bright in his eyes. He lets Sam see it and they share a secret smile in the moonlit darkness.

There’s a moment where Dean wants to ask Sam to stay, but it’s only a moment. Sam is looking heavy about the eyes and the half-smile has yet to leave his face, like he knows what Dean wants and is wondering if he’s silly enough to have to ask.

“You _are_ a bitch,” Dean says, leaning up to kiss him before shoving his hand under the mattress to get his wet wipes. He isn’t sure which one of those things makes Sam chuckle, but every time Sam laughs, Dean feels incrementally closer to truly okay, so he won’t press the issue.

It’s been two growth spurts and well over a decade since Dean Winchester has slept with his younger brother in his arms and he doesn’t think it’s going to be a regular thing. But they’ve had a rough time and they deserve a break; they’ve had a good time and they deserve to celebrate. They aren’t asking any questions.

Sam is too big to be anyone’s little spoon, but that doesn’t stop Dean. Encouraged by Sam’s sleepy laughter and the way he settles back against Dean, holding his hand against his chest, Dean puts his nose in Sam’s hair and relaxes. He means to stay awake savoring that closeness, but finds himself slipping to sleep as soon as Sam’s breathing evens out.

Dean will always rest easy in the knowledge that there’s not enough space for anything to get between them without eventually getting pressed down to nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading… if you are feeling hurt, it is not selfish to be gentle with yourself
> 
> I wonder if this would’ve been any different with the tables turned… My, my.
> 
> (And an important but hopefully unnecessary reminder: physical arousal does not imply consent or even necessarily enjoyment.)


End file.
